


Turn up the Heat

by HipHopAnonymous



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Bottom Sherlock, Corporal Punishment, Discipline, Embarrassment, Figging, Humiliation, M/M, Master/Slave, Military John Watson, Non-Consensual Spanking, Punishment, Sexual Slavery, Spanking, Strapping, Tawse, military setting, public spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:14:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24754561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HipHopAnonymous/pseuds/HipHopAnonymous
Summary: Captain John Watson has the prettiest slave in his regiment. Unfortunately, he also has the most obnoxious. Sherlock's inappropriate and rude deductions are becoming a real problem. Fed up, John delivers some well overdue discipline to his naughty slave.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 24
Kudos: 166





	Turn up the Heat

John had balked at keeping a slave while on duty, questioning the morality of it. But then it seemed like everyone was getting on board, and, if John were being honest, it was damned lonely out there in the dusty Afghan heat. It was easy to justify giving in to peer pressure. What really sealed the deal on the matter was that John’s rank and general popularity with his superiors afforded him an exceptionally appealing slave. So John decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth. Despite his initial aversions, he was pleased, since there was no denying that Captain John Watson had the prettiest slave in his regiment.

The slave was called 'Sherlock.' John had no qualms about letting the slave keep his own unique name. It suited, since Sherlock was equally unique in appearance. His pale white skin, high cheekbones, plump lips, long lashes, and ebony curls all coalesced to create a fey-like beauty. On looks alone, Sherlock was a perfect companion for bed-warming and pleasure.

Unfortunately, Sherlock was also an obnoxious arsehole, far too brilliant for his own good, and completely unable to keep his opinions ( _deductions_ , as he liked to call them) to himself. Sure, Sherlock was talented in bed, but he sure as Hell didn’t know when to keep his mouth shut outside of it. Sherlock’s frequent rude outbursts were starting to make John look bad in front of his inferiors, and so John was getting rather fed up.

It was yet another day of waiting around without much to do. John lounged in a folding chair beneath the open tents, he and his fellow soldiers taking refuge from the relentless sun. Sherlock sat grimacing on the ground beside him, the sleeveless shirt and narrow khaki shorts he wore showing off that delicious pale skin. Some of the other men had their slaves nearby as well, but none were as entrancing as Sherlock. John had half a mind to drag him back to his barracks for a little afternoon delight, but it was too hot by far. Best wait until after sundown.

Besides, John didn’t like the way Sherlock was eyeing the Second Lieutenant, and he liked even less the uncalled for commentary about what the man’s wife was presumably doing back home with his old rugby buddy. John especially didn’t like having to wrestle the man back from tackling Sherlock for a good trouncing. John certainly didn’t like being forced to pull rank to order the Lieutenant to sit the Hell back down. Though John was relieved to have prevented a black eye or bloody lip from marring Sherlock’s pretty face, he knew the time had come to discipline his unruly slave. No better time than the present, and probably best to take care of it in public to appease the men’s general annoyance with Sherlock. John had heard some unpleasant rumblings that called into question John’s ability to manage his slave, and that simply would not do.

“Sherlock,” he said sternly, “I’ve had enough of your piss-poor attitude. You’ve been warned before about those insults -”

“Deductions,” Sherlock interrupted, garnering a few quiet chuckles from the others.

John closed his eyes and ground his teeth, counting backwards from ten in an effort to calm his rage. “Such cheek,” he muttered under his breath. “That’s it. Stand up.”

With a huff, Sherlock stood and crossed his arms. John circled him like a shark, thinking. _What to do?_ Sherlock misbehaved often, but he was never downright _rebellious_. It was always minor sass and rudeness. When it came right down to it, Sherlock was a _brat_. With that in mind, John eyed the slave’s plump little arsecheeks in his too-tight shorts and came up with a fitting (and brilliant) idea.

“You may be clever, Sherlock, but you also have a bad habit of acting like a precocious child.” Sherlock scowled, but John continued, “Do you know what happens to naughty children? They’re punished.” John plopped back down into his chair and patted his lap. “Take down your trousers and pants and get over my knee.”

Sherlock blanched. His Master could _not_ be serious. He dithered for several moments, hoping to call John’s bluff, but John only stared back at him with that military no-nonsense expression. Everyone in the tent had stopped what they were doing and were now staring intently, many with lascivious grins, eager for what was shaping up to be a very interesting show.

“That was an order,” John warned. “The longer you stall, the worse it’s going to be for you.”

This was utterly ridiculous, but Sherlock had no choice but to obey. With much eye rolling and huffing, Sherlock unfastened his trousers and let them slide down over his narrow hips. With a nervous swallow he pushed his pants down to join them, crossing his hands in front of his crotch. Somebody wolf-whistled and Sherlock’s pale cheeks colored. The only thing more unbearable than going over John’s knee was standing there on display, so Sherlock hastily bent across John’s lap who helped adjust his gangly body into a suitable position for spanking.

“Such a pretty arse,” John said, rubbing his hand over Sherlock’s buttocks and giving one a firm squeeze. “Needs a bit of color, though.”

And then John smacked his palm down hard against Sherlock’s bottom. Sherlock stiffened and squeezed his buttocks together which did absolutely nothing to curtail the sting of John’s next swat. It was already worse than Sherlock had expected. John just kept spanking, smack after smack, never giving Sherlock enough time to recover from the stinging smacks. An unpleasant burn was spreading across his bottom, and it was soon feeling like John had set the sensitive skin on fire!

Unable to bear the heat, Sherlock began to squirm and struggle, but John held him down tightly, and so Sherlock could only wiggle his bottom, kick his feet and blurt out little _ow ow ow!_ ’s much to the amusement of the watching soldiers and slaves.

The others were definitely enjoying the show. Sherlock was quite attractive, and so it was a thrill to witness his plush little arse wiggling and jiggling while John’s relentless spanking turned it from pale white to rosy pink. It was also immensely satisfying to see the little brat getting his just deserts. With Sherlock’s crap attitude and his exquisite bum, he was practically _begging_ to be spanked. There wasn’t a soldier or slave in the camp who would disagree!

Sherlock’s bottom was warm and throbbing when John finally stopped, though he didn’t let Sherlock up until he’d slipped his trousers and pants off over his shoes. Sherlock stood there awkwardly, his cheeks - both bottom and top! - were bright pink and his eyes glassy.

“Okay, Sherlock. That was just a warm-up to get your attention.” Sherlock’s jaw dropped, but John kept right on, interrupting before the slave could get himself into more trouble by arguing. “Go back to my quarters. There's a tawse in the suitcase beneath my bed. Fetch it and bring it back to me.”

Sherlock stood there in stunned silence. _He couldn’t possibly mean … naked from the waist down … with his bare bum all red from being spanked?!_

“That’s right. Just as you are,” John confirmed, giving him a firm smack to his stinging bottom. Sherlock jumped, reluctantly making his way back to the private lodging that he and John shared.

Not surprisingly, walking through a military base with one’s spanked bottom exposed for all to see was a complete nightmare. Sherlock couldn’t decide if he should cover his front or his back as he scurried across the crowded field, acutely aware of the way his sore buttocks shook with every step, feeling terribly hot and itchy out in the mid-afternoon sun. His appearance elicited numerous snickers and cat-calls from onlookers, and Sherlock’s face blazed in embarrassment. He would have much preferred being bored to this!

Sherlock finally made it across camp, hurrying to dig under John’s bed for the tawse. It was a Scottish implement, which confirmed Sherlock’s deductions that John had roots there. Presumably, John kept the tawse for use on insubordinate inferior officers and slaves. Sherlock pulled it out and held the thing in his hands, throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. The handle was solid wood, and the thick strap that split into two twin-tails looked capable of delivering a mighty sting. Sherlock realized he was lucky not to have tasted the tawse yet, but his luck had apparently run out! With much trepidation, Sherlock took the humiliating walk back, this time holding the very object that was about to roast his bare bottom. Of course, this did nothing but increase the snide comments and taunts he received on his doomed walk. There was simply no way to go unnoticed with his spanked buttocks, a glowing red spotlight of disgrace.

John was pleased that Sherlock had followed his instructions, and so quickly. The slave was actually beginning to look contrite, which was a feat in and of itself. A little humility was clearly going a long way. Perhaps John had been remiss in disciplining his charge - a mistake he would not repeat.

“Back over my knee, naughty boy,” John said. He watched as Sherlock’s brow furrowed in confusion, realizing it would be difficult for John to wield the tawse in that position. John only grinned. “Don’t worry, Sherlock, we’ll get to the tawse next, but I just noticed that your bottom has lost some of its nice pink color, so I think I ought to warm it back up first. Don't you agree, men?”

A murmur of ascent rippled through the tent, and Sherlock looked very much like he wanted to sink into the ground. Even so, he obeyed, flopping miserably back over John’s lap. 

“Here,” John said, dangling the tawse down in front of Sherlock’s face. “I want you to hold this in your mouth while I spank you - that’s right, between your teeth. Good boy. See? You’re more well-behaved already! A good spanking is just what you needed. Hold onto it tightly, now! If you drop it, then I’m going to double the number of swats you receive from it. Twelve instead of six.”

Sherlock whimpered, biting down firmly into the leather, his whip-thin body going tense with dreadful anticipation. Then John flattened his hand and delivered an extraordinarily sound spanking to Sherlock’s bare bottom. Sherlock made no attempt at stoicism, but bucked and squirmed and frog-kicked his legs in a desperate attempt to endure the burning spanks. Of course, such antics only gave the onlookers a generous view of the cock and balls between his legs as well as the little pucker between his buttocks. This was rather convenient, since it also allowed John to spank those tender areas between Sherlock’s cheeks and inside his inner thighs, delivering sharp smacks to those sensitive areas that set Sherlock shrieking around the tawse in his mouth.

Sherlock’s normally pale bottom was turning cherry red from John’s relentless spanking, the color contrasting starkly with the white skin of his lower back and knee-hollows. What began as dark, distinctive hand-prints blotching all over Sherlock’s backside, was beginning to look as though Sherlock were wearing a pair of bright red, skin-tight pants from top to bottom!

John’s hand was also really starting to sting, and so he could only imagine how sore Sherlock’s bottom must be. However, Sherlock was doing an impressive job of keeping the tawse in his mouth, whimpering and squealing through his teeth without letting it go. John was surprised, and a little bit pleased with his slave’s obedience (even if it was only an effort to save his own skin!) but he really wanted to deliver a stern message to his headstrong slave. Sherlock spread his legs open as he writhed, and, feeling just a tiny bit mean about it, John delivered a sharp swat to the back of Sherlock’s testicles. The blow wasn’t nearly as hard as the rest of the spanking had been, but it came as a shock and made Sherlock give an open-mouthed shout, dropping the tawse to the floor with a thud.

John clicked his tongue. “That’s double.”

Sherlock kicked his foot out in a temper and growled, “That’s not fair!”

“You’re terribly undisciplined,” John replied with a smirk. “But we’ll see to that. Up we get. Hands on the seat of the chair. That’s right, bend over.”

  
  


With a sullen sigh, Sherlock acquiesced, placing his palms on the seat of the chair, still warm from where John had just been sitting spanking the daylights out of Sherlock.

“I can tell you were raised soft, Sherlock,” John said as he bent to pick up the tawse from where it lay on the ground after dropping out of Sherlock’s mouth. “Such a spoiled, naughty thing. I’ve listened to you complaining about the heat here often. Well, now I’m going to warm that posh little bottom up hotter than you could have ever imagined. Oh, George?”

A man who was practically drooling at Sherlock’s chubby little well-spanked buttocks snapped to attention. “Uh, y-yeah?”

“I need you to get something from the kitchen for me.”

Sherlock’s ears perked, but he was unable to hear what John muttered to the other man, though the guy chuckled darkly before hurrying off. Sherlock shifted his weight from foot to foot while they waited, goosebumps rising on the back of his neck in spite of the warm air.

“Deduced anything interesting yet?” John taunted, and Sherlock’s throbbing hot bottom ensured that the slave bit his tongue. “Just you wait, Sherlock. Ah, that was quick! Thank you George.”

Sherlock couldn’t stop himself from turning to look and saw that John was holding a small object that appeared to be a peeled finger of fruit or veg. Realization dawned on him and his eyes went wide.

“John - ”

“ _Master_ ,” John corrected sharply, and then gave Sherlock a lopsided grin. “So you _have_ deduced something, clever boy. Share with the class, then. Tell us what this is?”

John held the thing up and Sherlock swallowed thickly. “Ginger root.”

“That’s right! And where is this going to go?”

Sherlock’s face burned nearly as hot as his bottom. “M-my arse.”

“Where _exactly?_ ”

Sherlock tucked his chin against his chest and mumbled, “My arse _hole_.”

“Right you are! Why don’t you reach back and spread yourself open for me?”

With his heartbeat thrumming loud and fast in his ears and pale face blazing hot, Sherlock reluctantly reached back to grip his sore buttocks and spread them apart, exposing his anus to the room. The men whooped and whistled. Sherlock had never been so mortified in his life. He didn’t think anything could be worse than this utter humiliation. And then John pushed the ginger root inside his hole.

Half a moment later and the cool little plug caught fire, burning Sherlock from the inside out. He let out a stuttering wail, much higher pitched than his usual baritone.

“Brace yourself.”

That was John, and Sherlock was confused as to what he meant until the tawse snapped down against Sherlock’s bottom, lighting a band of flaming agony across both buttocks. Sherlock screeched and shot up, grabbing his burning bottom with both hands. Unfortunately, the movement made the little root in his bumhole erupt with renewed heat, and so Sherlock went rigid and howled.

He turned and looked to John, tears in his eyes. “Please, Master! I’m sorry, really. Please! Please, I’ll behave!”

“I’m sure you will,” John answered impassively. “Get back into position.”

“Please, Master. Please just take it out!”

“Back. Into. Position. Sherlock. If I have to ask again, I’ll make it eighteen strokes.”

With a sob, Sherlock bent back over, the ginger scorching his hole as he went. John immediately delivered the second stroke of the tawse just below the first. Sherlock stamped his foot and wiggled his hips like a naughty child, but remained bent over.

“The more you squirm, the worse that ginger is going to burn, so I’d suggest you try to keep still and take your licks like a good boy.”

Without hesitation, the third stroke came right across the tender portion beneath Sherlock’s plush buttocks. Sherlock found it was impossible to stay still _and_ quiet, so he wailed and screeched through John’s merciless strapping, white-knuckling the edges of the chair to keep himself from jumping up or reaching back.

“Your impertinence has gotten well out of hand, Sherlock. I do hope this will teach you some manners.”

Yet another blazing snap of fire across Sherlock’s bottom followed the lecture. Then another. John just kept laying those bands of fire across Sherlock’s bottom, heedless of the slave’s pleas. Sherlock’s usual haughty bravado had been spanked right out of him, and he continued to shamelessly cry and beg even after the twelfth and final stroke had been delivered, unaware that the punishment had even ended.

Sherlock’s entire backside - inside and out - was _on fire_ , scorching pain pulsating along the welts that the tawse had left behind. He could only sniffle pitifully, vowing to keep his deductions to himself from there on out. It was only a minimal relief when John pulled the ginger root out of Sherlock’s arsehole, leaving the detective to remain bent over with his smoldering bottom displayed to the soldiers. They all found it unbearably amusing to make their own asinine 'deductions' regarding the state of Sherlock’s arse and his behavior; however, Sherlock kept his opinions to himself and his mouth shut!

John stood by Sherlock’s quivering form with a satisfied smirk. He saw the way the other men were practically slobbering over his slave’s well-punished arse. It ignited a spark of possessiveness and pride. Not only had John impressed his squad, securing their respect, but he’d also effectively nipped Sherlock’s disobedience in the bud. At least for now.

“You can get up, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock pushed himself up onto unsteady feet, his movements slow and stiff as he tried not to irritate the red welted skin of his backside. 

John gave him a shrewd little smile. “I can’t imagine how much putting your clothes back on will hurt, so let’s give your sore bottom a break, why don’t we? You can have your trousers and pants back in three days.”

Sherlock’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head, but he didn’t say a word. No snarky comment or complaint could be heard. The slave merely nodded and looked down. It was the most demure and obedient John had ever seen him. _Excellent_ . John had made the right call. The punishment had worked, and the three day bare-bottom follow-up was the perfect way to hammer home the lesson, _and_ prolong the show for the squad to enjoy. 

After all, what fun was having the prettiest slave in the barracks if he couldn’t show him off a bit?

**Author's Note:**

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